


So Many Years Without My Home

by Kyl0R3n



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, I'll be updating tags as I go along, M/M, Masturbation, Orphans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8713399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyl0R3n/pseuds/Kyl0R3n
Summary: The pale, thin boy has no memory of what led to this.He's cold and shaking as he stands outside of this building, his bag clutched closely to him and a name tag in his hand.Someone watches from the distance.





	1. The Lost Boy

When he slowly ascends the steps to the large door, it’s overcast and the air surrounding him is eerily still, but perhaps it’s just his nerves. He knocks. The boy is merely five years old, thin and lanky in his frame. He clutches his entire world between his shaky hands, contained in a worn, black bag. The boy shivers under a tattered old peacoat, which is clearly too big for him. Three of its buttons are missing, but are stowed away in his bag, along with several other “treasures” he’s collected. Clasped between his hands is a grubby piece of paper with something written on it. His name. The only thing he owns besides the shabby clothes on his back and the junk in his bag.

A car zooms by and the boy flinches as freezing slush is kicked up at him from the road, chilling him to the bone when it creeps onto his bare skin. He knocks again, a bit more urgently this time. The old door swings open and a rather severe woman glowers down at him. He meets her stern gaze and suddenly can’t find words, can’t remember anything, including why he’s here.

“I don’t feed strays.” She says, her voice as strict as her gaze. “Not unless they work for their portions.”

The boy swallows heavily, his throat tight. “I’m-… I was told to- to come here…”

The woman eyes him up and down, as if appraising livestock. Her stare falls on the piece of paper and she snatches it from him, causing him to grip his bag tighter.

“Credence.” It sounds sour on her tongue. “Is that what I’m supposed to call you, then?”

He rubs his nose solemnly and nods. “Yes-“

“Just “Yes”?” She sneers.

“Yes, ma’am.” Credence corrects himself hastily.

A moment of silence passes between them and he glances nervously behind her. There are other kids here. Some are young just like him, and many carry the same glum expression. The woman stands aside, offering no words of invitation or welcome. Credence holds his bag closely to his chest as he enters, passing under her arm that rests on the doorframe. He stares around when inside and can’t help but notice how monotoned this place it, everything dull and some shade of grey or off white. The other kids weren’t particularly “playing” before he interrupted, simply lingering. They all stop to watch him and he suddenly feels like a spot light has been cast on him. The boy looks to the severe woman as she closes the door.

“Come along. We can find a bed roll for you. If you show potential, you may have an actual bed.” She passes him and he follows her quickly, still clutching his bag closely and ready to fight anyone who tries to take it.

Credence is led up the rickety stairs and to the last door on the left, directions he memorizes quickly. The woman goes to the closet and pulls out a moldy, old blanket, practically tossing it at him. It lands heavily on the boy, who didn’t want to let go of his things to catch it. He wriggles out from under it.

“Thank you, ma’am.” His voice is quiet.

She studies him again. “Is that it? You didn’t bring anything else?”

Credence adjusts the blanket, which smells strongly of mothballs and mildew. “I don’t have anything else.”

The woman scoffs. “I suppose you have more than some that show up on my doorstep.”

As she begins to leave, Credence notices a poster behind her. It’s large and angry looking, making him shift uncomfortably. It’s decorated with fire and gold letters with hands snapping what appears to be a stick in half in the middle. The boy screws his face up in concentration.

“..N-..Nisps-..?” He sounds it out.

The woman almost chuckles. “You can read, can you? Clever one?”

Credence suddenly regrets trying. He instinctively felt that this was not the kind of place he should be singled out in since stepping past the threshold, yet here he was, catching the wry woman’s attention.

“N.S.P.S.” She reads the letters out individually.

“What’s that mean?”

The woman holds up a hand. “In time, boy… Set up your bed roll and prepare for dinner.”

Credence nods and turns as she leaves. As he shoos away spiders and carefully positions his blanket so it doesn’t overlap with the several others scattered on the floor, he can’t help but glance up now and then at the poster, a sick feeling in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time it happens, he’s caught completely unaware.

 There aren’t many memories of life before this place. In fact, the more Credence tries to remember where he came from, the more any notion of a family before this one seems to slip away from him. Yet there’s one thing he is certain of; he’d never been struck like this before. With every lash of the belt on his backside, he wails miserably, until the stern woman grabs a fistful of his hair and wrenches his head up, hissing out a stern “You’ll take your beatings quietly, boy, or they won’t stop!”

**_Crack!_ **

Credence bites his lip to stop any noise from escaping as he endures hit after hit, each strike sending a wave of nausea to his stomach. When it’s finally done, he’s trembling, bent over the antique desk in Mary Lou Barebones’ office, his hands curled into fists and tears darkening the wood between them.

“Now go to your room and think about what you’ve done! I’ll have no oddities in this house!” She dismisses him and tosses his belt back to him starkly.

“Y-ye-yes, m-mother…” Credence hastily pulls his trousers back up and leaves her office, avoiding the stares of the other children. Some are nervous, others are almost amused. Most are scared.

 

Somehow, there had been a fire in the kitchens this morning. Credence had been helping with scrubbing the ovens when a boisterous boy in the house, Lawrence, had approached him. Lawrence had a face like a pig and was much bigger than Credence. It was easy for the lanky boy to become Lawrence’s punching bag and the subject of his cruel comments. Credence was used to this sort of treatment from him and had braced himself for more, but then Lawrence pulled out the most cherished thing the orphan owned from his pocket.

The little, silver locket dangled from Lawrence’s pudgy hand and swung back and forth.

“Found this in your mess.” Lawrence had sneered. “Thought I’d keep it for myself.”

Credence couldn’t explain what had happened after that. He had felt a surge of warmth, a rage coiling in his stomach. He shouted something, he couldn’t remember what, and suddenly the heat became all too real. A fire had erupted from the oven, causing Lawrence and any others playing witness to scramble away, shouting things like “Witch!” and “Demon!!”

It was easy enough for Ms. Barebone to hear the commotion and hurry to the scene.

Credence shudders, climbing the stairs, as he pictures her face when she’d seen what he’d done, her face twisted into horror and near disgust. The fire had receded almost at once when she had arrived in the kitchen, as if were as afraid of her wild expression as the boy. She wasted no time in grabbing him roughly by the arm and dragging him to her office…

 

Credence lumbers carefully to the bathroom across from his bedroom and closes the door. He had maintained his composure as he walked through the sea of concerned faces downstairs, but now he felt the dam breaking. Credence strips himself of his pants, trying to keep his sobs quiet as the fabric of his underwear slides painfully down the welts. He turns to see the angry red, almost purple skin, raised and raw. He sniffs hard and wipes his eyes on his sleeve, biting his lip as he carefully pulls his pants back up. The boy takes a deep breath and leaves the bathroom, going to his room.

He tries to stand tall, but can already tell he’s beginning to slouch.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The day is dreary, the wind is cold and sheer and a freezing drizzle falls like tiny pinpricks on his face. People pass by in a hurry. This is normal for this city. People come and go, everyone is always late or at least seemingly so. Credence knows he doesn’t look approachable. His mother has cut his hair short, in a style she’s deemed as “proper”. He wears clothes as monotoned and dreary as the interior of the place he now calls home. He’s grown taller over the past couple of years, but is skinny and pale, almost sickly looking most days.

Credence’s hands are painfully chilled, past the point of numbness as he shakily hands out flyers to anyone who will take them. This is a common chore these days, as it seems N.S.P.S. has grown since he first saw the intimidating poster. The poster was hardly intimidating to him anymore, as he’d handed out thousands of pamphlets, seen many of his mother’s crazed picketing rallies, and still closed his eyes at night to the one posted across from his door.

Mary Lou Barebone no longer ran the shabby building as an orphanage, and all but three of the children had either been adopted or sent somewhere else. Credence was very happy to see Lawrence go. Now it was only him and two girls, Chastity and Modesty. All three had called Mary Lou Barebone mother, and so she embraced them as her own.

The boy manages to hand out two more flyers, one of which goes to a man he’s sure he gave one to the day before. Perhaps it was pity. As he watches him go, he has a sudden feeling he’s being watched. Credence stares up and down the bustling sidewalk, making eye contact with many people passing by, but never more than a glance.

Then he sees him.

Across the street in an alleyway. A tall, imposing man stands in a long coat and scarf, staring over at Credence and his sisters in turn. The boy feels a sudden urge to protect his sisters, especially little Modesty, and he shifts to block her from view. The man across the way almost seems amused… or annoyed. Credence isn’t very good at judging this sort of thing. He’s distracted long enough to hand out another flyer and when he looks back to the alleyway, the man is gone.

Credence shivered, not from the cold this time.  

 


	2. The Alleyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for sadness and creeper!Graves!
> 
> But seriously, this fic will deal a lot with the ill ramifications of physical and mental abuse. It's very close to my heart because I've struggled immensely with overcoming the negative emotions and harmful coping mechanisms the abuse I faced as a child has caused in my life.
> 
> ON A HAPPIER NOTE, I'm very pleased with how it's turning out and hope you all are too!

Credence stares at the blank ceiling above his bed. The house is quiet now, the sky outside is still dark, but will begin to pale soon with the emerging dawn. The boy has hardly slept in the past three days, a feeling of unease settled deep in his gut ever since he met the gaze of the strange man in the allyway. He shivers and draws his grubby blanket closer, shifting on the creaking bed and staring at the window. A streetlight outside illuminates the small flakes drifting lazily from the sky. Credence stands, his blanket still drawn around his skinny frame, and goes to the window to watch.

He grips the dusty window sill to crouch, but abruptly pulls his hand away with a quiet whimper, forgetting about the open sores that litter his sensitive palm and fingers, a reminder of his disobedience two days prior, when he’d accidentally spilled a bucket of mop water in the foyer. Credence is pulled from the bad memory when he sees something move on the street corner below. Outside is calm and still, an immense difference from the normal daytime bustle of the city. The only sign of life is the occasional patrol officer…

The boy finds his gaze flitting from the street corner to the alleyway from the other day and he almost jumps, having to cast a second glance.

The very same man is there again, tall and intimidating. He stands unmoving, looking stoic and stern in a large, black overcoat and scarf that billows in the frigid wind. Credence feels a pang of nausea when he sees the man’s dark gazed fixed right on him. He lowers slowly out of view; his face feels warm. Surely the man couldn’t see him from all the way across the street… Especially through the dark and the falling snow.

He peeks over the window sill again. The man’s gaze doesn’t falter in the slightest.

Normally Credence- anyone, really- would have the common sense to go back to bed or inform mother… But instead of decent judgement, or even fear, Credence simply feels…. Intrigued.

He goes to the closet to look for his coat and pulls on his worn shoes over his pajama bottoms. The boy carefully leans out of his bedroom door, listening. He’d be in so much trouble if he were caught… But the only noise in the house is the steady breathing of little Modesty fast asleep in her bedroom next door to his. Chastity and Ma both have their doors closed. Credence slowly descends the stairs, stepping over the two squeaky ones at the bottom. With a shaky hand, he carefully undoes the latch on the front door and steps outside, the cold air taking him by surprise. He checks that the door is fastened closed before turning to cross the street.

His chest falls when he no longer sees the man standing there. Credence slowly approaches the road, looking back and forth, his heart pounding. The streets are eerily quiet and vacant, the freshly fallen snow sticking to the browned slush accumulated from the day. The boy takes careful steps, avoiding the deep muck collected on the uneven pavement as he gives paranoid glances back to the old church windows and door, ready for his mother to appear, enraged. He quickly ducks into the alleyway, a bit out of breath. The cold air stings in his chest as he moves forward. The freezing slush has seeped through his shoes and his feet ache with the cold.

The foolishness of what he’s done begins to sink in and he shivers, suddenly panicking. There was no reason to leave the church and pursue the strange, stalking man into this alleyway. It would be dawn soon, and Credence knew he’d already be spending several hours out in this cold later today for one of his mother’s rallies…

When he’s sure the alleyway is vacant, Credence begins to lumber back towards the street, feeling a bit let down.

“Young man,” a voice rings out, and a strange wave of cold moves through Credence, “what are you doing out here?”

The boy has his arms crossed, practically hugging himself and concealing his hands (something Ma always told him to do around strangers when the marks of his discipline were too obvious) as he slowly turns back around. The man stands before him, his eyes dark, but what appears to be concern passes through his gaze. He looks Credence up and down, but this is not a stern appraisal like he’s used to from his mother…

No, the man’s stare is almost one of pity.

“You’re hardly dressed for weather like this, young man.” He says.

“I’m-… I saw you the other day-… and- and just now… from my window…” Credence tries to keep his voice even, but can hear it faltering.

The man casts another glance up at Credence’s bedroom window, the corner of his mouth barely curling into a smile. “I was only admiring the church… I frequent this part of the city, but had never noticed it.”

“…oh.” That’s all Credence says for a while, then adds, “It used to be an orphanage… B-but Ma-… well, she made it a church…”

“Do you have any relatives? …brothers or sisters?” The man continues studying the building, his voice almost distracted.

“I have two sisters… But-… Well, they’re not my-… you know-“

“Not your blood relatives, you mean?” He finally looks down at Credence.

The boy finds it hard to meet and maintain the man’s fierce gaze. His face feels warm. “…No sir… We’re three of the orphans that Ma adopted…”

“Dear boy,” The man gently tilts the boy’s head up by the chin, his prominent eyebrows crease and his voice is sympathetic, “I’m so sorry you find yourself in such unfortunate circumstances…”

Credence winces at the touch at first, preparing himself for a scolding or a sharp slap. When it doesn’t come and he’s met instead with concerned eyes and an even more concerned voice, he feels the warmth travel from his face to his chest, pooling and almost aching. It’s hard to find his own voice, hard to think at all.

“I-… I’m-…” Credence swallows heavily.

Something else passes over the man’s features. Credence doesn’t notice.

“Your mother… does she give you love?” He slowly moves his thumb, caressing the boy’s chin softly. “Does she give you affection?”

Credence shudders a bit. “She-… Ma f-feeds us and-… and she-…” He slowly begins to relax more, but can hardly concentrate.

“What is your name, boy?” His thumb stops.

“Credence…” He carefully lifts his gaze up at the man’s, unsure if his eyes convey how desperately he wishes the man would continue.

“Credence…” He smiles softly as he resumes. “That’s a very nice name… You can call me Graves…”

The boy melts to his touch. Hearing the man say his name with such praise makes the warmth in his chest travel further down. He swallows thickly, closing his eyes.

“Yes, sir…” he mumbles.

Graves gently removes his hand and pats Credence’s shoulder.

“Perhaps you should be getting back to your warm bed. You don’t have much time until the sun rises.” He nods. “From what I understand, your mother is holding one of her rallies later today… Am I correct?”

Credence slowly comes back to his senses, still feeling a bit dazed. “O-oh… You know about those? I-… Yes, sir… I hand out the pamphlets for them.”

Graves studies him. There is no judgement, only pity again. “You deserve much more, Credence. You’re a very special boy.”

The boy opens his mouth to speak, but somehow loses his words at what the man says. He slowly closes it again, and mutters a feeble “N-not really…” His eyes are downcast.

“I want to see you again, Credence. Would that be alright? I would like to know more about you and this church.”

Credence, still seemingly starstruck, only nods. The man smiles warmly again.

“Good. Now back to bed. You’ll catch a cold…” He removes his hand from Credence’s shoulder and turns to leave.

The boy watches him. For a moment, just a fleeting moment, he wants to follow this man. He wants to know why he’s dressed so officially, why he’s so kind, and, possibly most importantly, why he thinks Credence is special.

He blinks and shakes his head before turning to cross the street.

Credence isn’t special. He has proven time and time again that he is disobedient. That he is a bad boy, and is deserving of every mark across his rear, every slash on his feeble hands, every bruise on his face and split lip.

 _No,_ he thinks miserably as he carefully opens the door, _Credence isn’t special…_

“Credence.” His mother sits at the bottom of the stairs in her nightgown, waiting. Her strict eyes watch him solemnly step towards her, the slush in his shoes making them leak with each step. “Where have you been?”

He keeps his eyes cast down and he bites his lip. “…I’m sorry, Ma…” His voice is barely audible as he instinctively reaches for his waist for his belt, but his met with the elastic of his pajama bottoms under his tattered coat.

Mary Lou Barebone reaches to the step behind her and holds up the familiar belt, already prepared. She stands and points starkly to the top of the staircase. Credence feels tears prick at the corner of his eyes as he slowly makes his way up, his feet throbbing with the cold and his stomach churning with dread. As he enters her room and removes his coat, he tries to remember the man’s touch, his gentle caress.

Credence slowly slides his bottoms down over his backside and his face grows hot as his mother enters the room. He closes his eyes, bracing himself for the strikes as his fingers easily find purchase on her desk in the scores he’s left in the past.

He cries out at the first strike, his grip tightening.

Credence takes himself back to the alleyway, negating the horrible things his mother is calling him and accusing him of as she beats him, trying to hold onto Mr. Graves’ touch and his soft voice…

 

_You deserve much more, Credence…_

 

**_Crack!_ **

 

_You’re a very special boy…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for any and all feedback!  
> Follow me on tumblr (18+ please)  
> werewolf-kylo-ren.tumblr.com


	3. Desperate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence realizes he might be hooked...  
> Too bad the man he believes to be an angel probably isn't...  
> (Let's start earning that Explicit rating, shall we?)

Days pass, each one seeming slower and more mundane than the last. The only way Credence notices their passing are the fading marks on his backside, which have gone from angry, red, raised, and swollen, to a mottled and sickly purple. He whimpers quietly as he pulls his pants on for the day along with his old, tattered coat and hurries downstairs. Mary Lou is preparing some sort of stew in the kitchen, and the scent reaches Credence’s nose. It’s tantalizing, but he’s too anxious to eat.

It’s Saturday, meaning they’ll have the soup kitchen open today and their church services tomorrow, so Credence helps by going out into the cold to sweep the stoop of the church and to shovel the snow from the sidewalk.

The boy has been adamant about accepting the outside chores, partly to avoid any confrontation inside, but mostly so he can watch and listen. His eyes are glued to the alleyway as he sweeps, yet it remains horribly vacant. He sighs and stares blankly at the ground, watching as the dust and the dead, wet leaves that have collected over the week flutter away and taint the fresh blanket of snow below.

The winter air is crisp again today, but the sun is shining through the haze in the city sky. Credence blames this for the warmth he’s feeling under his coat as he moves to the next stair down. The street is busier than normal today, but everyone that passes, thankfully, doesn’t acknowledge the boy.

As he finishes the sweeping and starts shoveling snow, he begins to lose faith.

Perhaps Credence had only fooled himself into believing that the dark, foreboding alleyway would become some kind of sanctuary for him. That the man named Mr. Graves would caress him and tell him again those words that he so desperately wished to hear.

Just as he slowly turns to go back inside, Credence hears a faint pop that stands out from the normal bustle of the busy streets and sidewalk, a foreign noise that doesn’t quite fit the scene and situation. His heart feels like it skips a beat as he spots Graves standing in the alleyway once more. Credence blinks and rubs his solemn eyes to assure he’s not just seeing things.

Graves’ gaze is not fixed on Credence at all, but the church behind him. His eyes are searching, unblinking at the old building. Credence doesn’t notice that the man’s stare is focused beyond him, as he’s too distracted himself, consumed with a strange feeling. A feeling of elation in his chest. A feeling of serenity.

Credence has read the book of John, the story of the apostle Thomas, who doubted Jesus Christ’s return after the crucifixion. Only through an embrace did the man find his faith again, and he was blessed. The boy stares at Graves now with the same reverence, the same shaking doubt, but complete desire for it to be real, not just his desperation for it to be so.

Credence doesn’t fearfully check if his mother is watching him neglect his duties, he doesn’t even think of her. He doesn’t think of the traffic or passing people as he steps forward towards the alleyway. He doesn’t think about the stagnant water collected in dirty puddles on the street, threatening to leak into his pathetic shoes as he hurries across the pavement. There is only one thing in Credence’s universe in this moment, and he’s just spotted the boy.

Graves smiles as his eyes fall on him, and Credence’s mouth goes dry.

The boy doesn’t recognize the emotion he sees on the man’s face. He doesn’t understand the notion of being wanted, of being…

Needed?

Graves wraps his arms around him as he approaches and Credence feels the fine hairs on his neck stand.

“Hello, Credence. It’s been awhile.” Like always, the man’s voice is gentle, and Credence feels it embrace him more closely than arms ever could.

“Where did you go?” Credence can hear the desperation in his voice. He’s sure Mr. Graves can hear it too. “I didn’t think you would-… I thought you weren’t going to-“

Graves looks down at him, barely raising his brows, encouraging Credence to finish.

The boy chews on his bottom lip and looks to the ground. “…I’m glad you came back, sir.”

A small smile plays at the corners of the man’s lips and he gently holds the boy against him again. The smile drops as he feels Credence tense, but keeps his voice gentle. “Credence, do you fear the company of others?”

The boy shivers and shakes his head against Graves’ chest. He’s warm, and Credence can smell the lingering scent of some kind of cologne. “No, sir… I only… I don’t like being around many people at once. I get nervous. But,” He closes his eyes as Graves runs a hand up his back and clasps the base of his neck with his warm hand, rubbing gently. “…but I enjoy your company very much…”

“I’m glad, dear boy…” He pulls him back, holding him by the shoulders and assessing him. Credence swallows heavily when Graves’ eyes settle on his bruised, cut up hands and they narrow. He slowly takes the worst of the two and raises it, studying the injuries.

“…What happened, Credence?” His voice is soft, yet firm.

“I pick at my hands when I’m nervous.” He already has an excuse. He always does. “…which is a lot.”

“These are not wounds made by your own nails…” Graves traces over a particularly deep one, causing the boy to groan softly. “Who did this?”

“No one…” He says a silent prayer, another habitual practice; to ask God for forgiveness at his lies. “I did it to myself.”

The man takes a deep breath and watches Credence. He holds the boy’s hands in one of his and slowly, intimately, brushes his free hand over the tattered skin.

Credence shudders as he witnesses the impossible. The sensation is similar to lowering his freezing hands into steaming bathwater, starting at his fingertips and flowing to his palms. In the wake of the warmth, the cuts that adorn his hands begin to seal and fade, leaving no trace that they were ever there. The boy shivers, the warmth spreads to his stomach and he looks up in near devotion at the man who’s just done the impossible, who’s just performed a miracle he’s only read about in sacred texts.

Graves smiles down at him, a hint of pride shimmers in his dark eyes. “I’m trusting you to keep this a secret, Credence. You must never tell anyone.”

The boy is still standing in awe, his gaze transfixed on the man.

“Credence,” Graves’ voice firms again, “Can you keep this a secret?”

“Y-…yes, sir.” The boy barely manages a whisper, so he nods meekly in assurance. “Yes, sir, I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” And he will keep it.

The man smiles and blinks in acknowledgment.

Credence hesitates. “Can you do more? Can I see more?”

“In time, Credence.” Graves cups the boy’s face and wipes a smudge of dirt off of his cheek with his thumb. “In time, I can show you more.”

 

* * *

 

 

Credence ascends the stairs, his chest still pounding. The fact that he had somehow eluded punishment was hardly on his mind as he rubbed his healed, trembling hands. He knew that there was something almost otherworldly about the mysterious man in the alleyway, but now he was easily convinced that Graves was some sort of angel.

The boy strips himself of his coat and goes to his bedroom window, staring down at the alleyway below. Vacant again. The angel named Graves has left, but the boy still feels as if he’s watching over him.

The sky is dark now, and clouds lazily sail across it, their edges glowing from the moon which shines clearly, not obstructed like the sun. Credence continues brushing over where Mr. Graves touched him so tenderly, almost manic. His hands are cold again, and he wishes more than anything they would be warm again.

The boy turns from the window and peeks out of his bedroom door. He can hear the radio broadcast down in the living area. The static voices are cheerful this time, but he can hear Ma, who listens to the broadcasts nightly, listening for any strange and unexplained events with a malicious commentary of her own.

“Freaks…” he hears her hiss from downstairs, “all of them.”

Modesty says something quietly in return, but Credence can’t hear exactly what.

He swallows heavily and calls out down the stairs. “Ma, may I have a bath?”

“Preferably.” Mary Lou’s voice is stern. “We have service tomorrow and you’ll be handing out the communion.”

“Yes, Ma. I’ll wash well.”

The boy goes to the bathroom. The gloomy tile is cold beneath his feet and the entire bathroom is frigid with stale and stagnant air, almost as chilled as outside. He hopes more than anything that the water will be warm, contrary to the last few times he’s run it in this dead winter month. He turns the faucet and lets it run, before turning to the mirror and beginning to peel of his weathered clothes.

Credence groans softly as he pushes his pants down over his backside, the bruises still very prevalent.

He stares at himself in the mirror when he’s bare. Skinny as ever. He’s grown quite a bit, though. Winter has made him paler, and even more sickly looking. Unapproachable. Credence is fine with this.

Steam billows into the view of the mirror and he’s pleased. He evens the other knob to cool the water a bit, flitting his hand under the tap until it’s just right, before plugging the tub.

When the tub is filled enough, he turns the water off, making sure his grubby towel is close by before stepping in slowly. Credence sinks down to his waist, sighing contently before sitting back and closing his eyes. He opens his eyes and studies the surface of the water as it stills around him, his mind only on one thing.

The boy slowly submerges his hand from fingertips to wrist, almost groaning at the similar sensation of Mr. Graves’ healing touch. His mind is still solely focused on the miracle he’d witnessed, and his invitation to see more. What else would the man from the alley be capable of?

Credence suddenly remembers the kitchen incident when he was younger, as well as other peculiarities Mary Lou had deemed as “freakish oddities”. Maybe he was capable of doing incredible things as well…

Credence shakes his head, and looks up at the water stained ceiling before closing his eyes again.

Nonsense. He’d only caused a small fire, only performed strange coincidences here and there…

And yet…

Credence could almost hear Graves’ voice, as if he were in this very bathroom.

**_“You’re a very special boy…”_ **

The words send a tingle through his stomach, down even further and he bites his lip. When Credence opens his eyes again, he’s astonished to find that something is happening; his soft length gives a few meek twitches, and begins rising between his legs like a small sapling.

This is bad. Impermissible. Sinful, even. Graves was a source of comfort, nothing else.

The boy brushes down his front, pushing these tempting thoughts away and trying to force his length down. He shudders with sensitivity as soon as he grazes it. It feels good.

His morals are replaced with curiosity as he brushes it again. It gives a helpless throb under the water.

Credence sits forward and gently wraps his hand around the base, stroking up, letting out a breathy “ _ahh…_ ”

His cock throbs again, and a semi-clear liquid spurts from the tip, blending into the bathwater. He bites into the back of his hand to keep his moans quiet as he strokes over it again and again, his curiosity and heightening pleasure coiling in his stomach making him go faster.

Concern over his mother and sisters possibly discovering this depraved act suddenly disappears as he imagines his touch as Mr. Graves. A horribly wonderful fantasy comes to mind.

 Credence pictures himself in the alleyway, his trousers down around his ankles and the man pinning him against the wall, whispering into his ear over the boy’s harsh, frantic pants.

“ _Good boy, Credence,_ ” He breathes, “ _Such a special boy for me…_ ”

“God-… god- yesss-..” Credence whines softly to himself in the tub, feeling the tightness in his gut.

He imagines that warm hand wrapped around his cock, that pathetically oozes more and more precome. Graves’ hands are gentle, but slightly calloused at his finger tips, and Credence can nearly feel them brushing over the prominent vein in that’s appeared in his shaft as the man whispers more praise into his ear. Terrible, amazing things; “ _What a good boy, Credence. So good for me. You want this so badly, don’t you, you filthy boy…_ ”

He can practically hear the lewd sounds echoing in the alleyway, his mewls of desperation and the man’s frantic strokes.

Suddenly, it all becomes too much, and Credence feels himself crest, pulse after pulse of ecstasy washes over him.

“Oh, **_God!!_** I’m a good boy! I’m your good boy!!” The boy arches and cries out as his dick pulses under the water, spewing spurt after cloudy spurt. It doesn’t stop, especially as he imagines it happening in the alleyway, his spend splattering on Graves’ hand, who only uses it to fist his sticky shaft even faster.

Credence lays back, spent. His face is red and flushed, his thighs trembling as he comes down from… whatever this was.

His come slowly disappears in the water and his cock gives another interested twitch as he thinks of how dirty it all is.

The boy has no time to bask in the afterglow, his stomach jolting in terror instead as a sharp rap comes from the bathroom door and it opens before he can stammer out “Don’t come in!”

His mother stands in the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob, her face livid as she stares down at him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DENIED. Why am I so adamant about making this poor kid suffer?   
> It'll be worth it in the end, I promise...  
> Thank you all for reading!   
> Feel free to comment, kudos, and all of that...  
> My tumblr URL werewolf-kylo-ren if you want more fandom nonsense!   
> I hope you all are having a happy holidays!

**Author's Note:**

> Are we in angst central yet? Probably not. Don't worry, I'll get us there. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr! werewolf-kylo-ren.tumblr.com


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